It’s Surely to their Credit [Fiction]

Today  I wanted to get into the sandbox and play around a bit. So, here’s what came out of my experimentation  [WARNING:STRONG LANGUAGE USED. *Edited 2-11-18*] — —

… I can see. The acid green horizon spills out like a bucket of slugs over the New York City shoreline. It’s pollution. Our pollution. Not just the CFCs and the HFCs and the PFCs but the words that come from our mouth in the late night, the ones that round through our heads –shit, fuck, cunt, bitch-hole- the vomit, the atrocity come to fill our little town with such venom that it hangs in the air. Madge – some blonde named only by the enlightening title engraved on an inch long strip of plaque stuck to the wall- sits on the corner of Luxembourg and France, hair wild- she rolled out of bed, hand over her mismatched, distorted face- not even Dali would paint such a scene. Not even the MoMa would hang it… I reach out, pull the portrait off the wall, spin around the white room- lighting so garish, smells like floor wax and three week old pizza from the cafeteria downstairs.

The guard- a name for a human being in a black uniform and shiny gold badge that states neither rank, nor title, but the commonplace name Bob like it’s some sort of honorific- like it’s something more than some camp slogan: Butt on Bunk, or a grocery store mantra: Bottom of the Basket. Bob waddles like a penguin, like there’s a chick shoved so far up his pouch- to the place where I stand, oil painting in hand. Some sort of Armageddon has arrived – green skied, post atomic bomb, never heard of global warming, bank bailout, race-baiting world has descended upon us- truly Lucifer falling from heaven. The guard wants to slam me into the wall, like that flashlight in his left pocket is some type of gun and he’ll blow my brain out with a quick flash of a 4000 lumen LED light to the face.

There’s the crowd now. Stopping. Looking. Like they’ve got some sort of investment in a painting from three hundred years ago, like Monet really is better than Manet- like Elmo is the President Elect and I’m holding onto the last piece of sanity in this trash pile called a Cuntry. It’s despicable. It’s laughable. It’s a fucking gas.

There’s a war raging in the guard’s eyes- Hitler loves Stalin and CommuFascism is the new hype for a continental congress waving blank flags in the air- who cares what happens at Hiroshima. He wants to tell me to drop the painting- he means it put down slowly- that some pedant with a paintbrush spent ten hours hunched over like a constipated, masturbating polyp and his efforts are worth the ten million dollar a year grant- like some snot nosed six year old who sits in the storm drain, drinking acid rain for breakfast and pigeon shit for lunch, is somehow less worthy- but he doesn’t want me to throw it, can’t ram his fat, flubbery body into mine at the risk of losing such a precious piece of art-

Precious- Precocious, Pop a pill and then another in a long string of ideas weaving together like some ten pound rubber band ball, unable to bounce- which is to say unable to be cool- can’t join it’s 25 cent cousins from the gumball machine that do so much more- like I’m standing with a painting between my arms, staring at a red faced buffoon, too caught up in the notion that Abraham Lincoln is lying on the floor, face up- meaning good luck or something- and to get it means to drop and run, skid under legs, leap over the ceramic bench, slide stomach first under the rope to where the shiny copper sits waiting like a fifteen year old girl on the edge of the toilet- plus or minus, one line or two- and good old Abe, honest to the core, couldn’t feel more out of place.

The guard lunges- I guess the painting isn’t worth the only action he’ll see all day- I go right, painting still in my hands until it’s not- an albatross falling falling falling, with a clatter. Abe Lincoln is in my pocket, buried under three copies of FDR, one John F. Kennedy, pressed sideways against Andrew Jackson and the twenty odd slaves he keeps at his mansion to do his wash- or so he says-

The sound of footsteps, like guns, and helicopter propellers, and mom and dad fucking in the living room make me run faster through the crowd, almost into Michelangelo’s David, down a staircase, and out the door into the beat of the New York street, some thirty years in the future where cars drive off the road instead of on them. I run the way back into the mist of flashing lights so blinding that I can’t see- but…

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